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THIS LITTLE BOOK OF VAGRANT 
VERSE, A DREAM OF PALM AND 
PINE, I DEDICATE TO YOU, OLD 
PAL, FOR DAYS OF AULD LANG SYNE 





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Jsbies foere fairer, 

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Cone mg rastlea on tije ^Klfine, — 
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Playing TheIanks With 
A Reuben Show" 

Robert tfexdale 

duthor °f"When the MtojMpffaa 
the Sreai Highway" C-tc. 



Decora ft orU JQ y 

jiarry Garmar) ihomson 



The Robertu3 G 



OMPANY 

CHICAGO 



TS 



Copyright, MCMXm 

BY 

ROBERT REXDALE 



Kht Uafetgfae $rcss 

R. R. DONNELLEY &• SONS COMPANY 
f CHICAGO 



CI.A35116 3 



Playing the Tanks with a 
Reuben Show 



So you want the story before you go, — 

Why I play the tanks with a Reuben show; 

And you think, good sirs, from my speech and ways, 

That I've known the fortune of better days? 

Well, art is long — and it leaves its trace 
In the tell-tale lines of an actor's face, 
And now the liquor has loosed my tongue, 
I'll tell of a picture in memory hung! 

It was New Year's eve, in the Alcazar, 
The year I was starring as Ingomar, — 
In the old Northwest, where the boundary line 
Ran close to the hills and the upper mine, — 

Where men were rough and the way was strange, 
As the trail went down the Meseba range, 
Where the right of might was the primal law, 
And the first to win was the first to draw. 

If I ramble on in a dreamy mood, 
It's the actor's way in the play's prelude; 
But fill the glass for a toast again, — 
I drink to your happiness, gentlemen! 

I'm glad that you happen to find me here, 
On this closing night of the dying year, 
For I was weary with life's desire, 
Alone with my thoughts by the bar-room fire. 



Playing the Tanks with a Reuben Show 



But the story drags that you wish to hear, 
And my brain is thick with the drink, I fear, — 
It's many a year since the tale I've told, 
But what does it matter now life is old? 

You heard of me in the past, I'll wage, 

In the palmy days when I held the stage 

At old McVicker's in Ingomar, 

With my name on the billboards near and far. 

As I said before, it was New Year's then, 
With its loving thought of our fellow men; 
I played the lead, — and I played it well, 
Though my heart was hot with the fires of hell! 

For I knew the language of lips and eyes, 

I knew the meaning of tender sighs, 

And I saw Parthenia's face grow white 

As the snows that mantled the range that night. 

Ah! I loved her then, as I love her now, 
From her dainty feet to her classic brow, — 
The charm of the centuries lingered there, 
In the clustering wealth of her golden hair. 

But out in front was the handsome youth 
Who had paid her court when we played Duluth, 
And I swore, if ever he crossed my path, 
He would meet the fate of a righteous wrath! 



Playing the Tanks with a Reuben Show 



Parthenia's eyes had a hunted look, 
As the hart that panteth the water brook, — 
But she read her lines with a queenly mien, 
As we worked together to build the scene. 

God! — how I acted the lover's part, 
As I pressed her close to my jealous heart! 
Nor heard, nor saw, what a tumult rose, 
When the curtain fell on the mimic close. 

For what are the plaudits of noisy crowds, 
When the sun is hid by the darkening clouds, 
And the one sweet hope of the future lies 
In the baffling depths of a woman's eyes? 

But the scene comes back, and I see it all, — 
How I led her out for the curtain call! 
The crowded house, — and the footlights dim, 
And the smiling, devilish face of him 

Who crept like a wolf to my guarded fold, 
As the serpent came in the days of old, 
And stole the jewel from out my life, — 
The love of a wandering actor's wife! 

Was that a cry at the window-pane, 
Or only the call of the wind and rain? 
Methinks the cry of a soul went forth, 
And I felt the breath of the icy north, — 



Playing the Tanks with a Reuben Show 



For since that night in the old Northwest, 

When I could not strike — though she bared her breast, 

Strange are the fancies the shuttles weave, 

In the changing warp of a New Year's eve! 

There's a story old as Meseba's hills, 
Of a poisonous adder whose venom kills 
The high ambition for place and power, 
In the little space of a reckless hour. 

I had found it true as I neared the brink, 
To plunge, at last, in the waves of drink, — 
And that is why, if you care to know, 
I'm playing the tanks with a Reuben show/ 



Beyond the Battle's Roar 



Bring flowers to strew the soldier's grave, 

Life's rush and tumult o'er, 

While far away 

The Blue and Gray, 

Beyond the battle's roar, 

Are waiting for the bugle call, 

Beside the Shenandoah. 



At the Eleventh Hour 



(Elks' ii-o'clock Toast) 



There is an hour of mystic charm, 

When memory's chimes are rung, 
A time of deep, religious calm, 

Whose praise the bards have sung; 
The heart of Elkdom throbs and beats, 

And other days recall 
The pledge that lip to lip repeats, — 

Our absent brothers all! 

Not riches great or high estate, 

Nor blood of kingly line, 
Not favors that on fawning wait, 

Inspire this hour of mine; 
The banquet lights are burning low, 

Within the antlered hall, 
The theme is of the long ago, — 

Our absent brothers all ! 

I list the chiming of the hour, 

The touch of glass with glass, 
And count as friendship's priceless dower, 

The moments as they pass; 
Where'er I roam on land or sea, 

Whatever fates befall, 
Let me with them remembered be, — 

Our absent brothers all! 

Though oceans stretch their leagues between, 
Or trackless wastes divide, 



At the Eleventh Hour 



A charm is in the hour, I ween, 
That brings them to our side; 

And some there are who sleep for aye, 
Where sombre shadows fall, 

But sweet the rosary we say, — ■ 
Our absent brothers all! 



Lawrence Barrett 



So Barrett's dead! How soon Life's play is o'er. 

It seems but yesternight I saw him last; 

And now he to the dim Unknown has passed, 
A stately ghost upon a ghostly shore! 
You who received the love-clasp of his hand, 

As in the night he breathed a last good-by, 
Oh, but our hearts your grief can understand, 

Though the gods will that earth-born man must die. 

"Ave et Vale!" — Hear the players cry, 
As the dark curtain falls upon the scene. 
Never again, O thou with kingly mien, 

Shall we behold the splendor of thine eye; 
But to thy shade I raise this glass of mine, 
To pledge thee, brother, in Death's dregless wine! 



Where the Green Cicada Sings 



Phyllis, to your garden nook 
I from out Bohemia look, 

And I see you dreaming there, 
With the sunshine in your hair. 

Hands aclasp above your head, 
In your cheeks the roses red; 

All the air awhirr with wings, 
Where the green cicada sings. 

And methinks I hear you say, 
"Love will come some summer day!" 

In your fond eyes, Phyllis dear, 
Shines the June light of the year. 

Life's today a garden-close, 
Where the tree of pleasure grows, 

And its branches, cool and sweet, 
Drop the rich fruit at your feet. 

Thus my fancy roams to you, 
Through the smoke cloud's wavy blue - 

Where the dream bridge, fairy spanned, 
Crosses from Bohemia land. 



Yuletide 



The skies are dark save for one splendid star, 

That marks the manger where the young Child lay. 
Far off I hear the surging of the sea, 
The town's dull roar is stealing up to me, 
Ere breaks the day. 

I dream of palm trees swaying in the wind, 
Of flocks that graze on far Judea's plain. 
I weave the holly and the mistletoe, 
And sweet old songs of Yuletide long ago 
Sing in my brain. 

The cuckoo calls the hour upon the wall, 

The gates are shut — the lights are burning dim. 
Though deep the snows are drifting on the wold, 
My tender lambs are safe within the fold, 
Beloved of Him. 

Dreaming, I walk the way the Master trod, — 

E'en I who may not touch His garment's hem. 
This holy night, beneath the happy stars, 
I cry to thee from out my casement bars, 
O Bethlehem. 



When the Mississip' Was the 
Great Highway 



I'm a guest on shore with you gents to-night, 
Where the smoke is thick and the wine is bright, 

But my thoughts go back to the long ago, 
And the river that sings to the sea below! 

I'll tell you the story as best I can, 
For I'm only a weather-worn river man, 

But the world was sweet and its joys were real, 
To the men who stood at the steering wheel; 

And I've not forgot how it used to be., 
In the good old days that are gone for me, 

For the pulse beat fast and the heart was gay, 
When the Mississip' was the great highway! 

Ah! those were the days when the red blood ran 
In the fevered veins of a river man, 



And those were the days when your honor, sah, 
Meant more than it does in the days that are! 

If a slur was cast on a woman's name, 
Or the lie was passed in a poker game, 

It was knife to knife ere the morning sun, 
And a new-made grave for the weaker one. 



When the Mississip' Was the Great 
Highway 



I carry the mark of a bowie here, 

In a long, red scar near the larboard ear, 

For we fought together at break of day, 
When the Mississip' was the great highway! 

If I sigh sometimes for the vanished years, 
And my eyes grow dim with the mist of tears, 

It is not because of the changing ways, 
And it's not regret for the river days! 

But I miss the ones who have gone to sleep, 
Where the hill dips down to the waters deep, 

And I mourn a friend who in life was rare, — 
Old Davy Tip who is anchored there. 

They were true to me as the stars are true, 
And their smiles like sunshine sifted through, 

To brighten the gloom of a stormy day, 
When the Mississip' was the great highway! 

So I dream to-night o'er my pipe and glass, — 
A dream of the boats as they used to pass; 

The song of the river's in everything, 

As the whistle blows for the bridge to swing! 



When the Mississip' Was the Great 
Highway 

I can see the lights as we're drifting down, — 
The lights of home in the sleeping town, 

And I miss the crews that will sail no more, 
As I miss the face of a girl on shore. 

But I pledge them all in the sparkling wine, 
As memory singeth of auld lang syne, 

And I drink to years ere the head was gray, 
When the Mississip' was the great highway! 



Lines to a Little Boy 

I wish for thee, my little prattling boy, 

Life's bravest battle and its fewest scars; 

Such love as shineth in thy mother's joy, 

Lit by the gleam that glorifies the stars. 

E'en all that heaven can send to make thee great, 

Youth's aspirations and man's grand estate. 



Daisy Vaile 



In a valley of the Southland, 

Lives my sweetheart Daisy Vaile, 
Lovely, winsome little maiden, 

Wooed by every passing gale ! 
I can see her in my dreaming, 

As the sky is gemmed with stars, 
And I know that she remembers, 

When I kissed her at the bars. 

O that night of starry splendor, 

As we wandered down the dale, 
When I told her that I loved her, 

Bright-eyed, laughing Daisy Vaile! 
Then she heard the olden story, 

Told in accents soft and low, 
In a land of flowers and sunshine, 

Where the honeysuckles grow. 

From the hills and from the valley, 

Speeds a message dear to me, 
" I am waiting in the Southland, 

Underneath the myrtle tree!" 
In the sky the stars are shining, 

Wakes to song the nightingale, 
And my heart sends back the answer, 

"I am coming, Daisy Vaile." 



The Other Side of the Picture 



His corn's in the crib and his wheat's in the bin, 

No matter, good sir, how the weather may blow; 
A poet may envy and count it no sin, 
The man with the hoe. 

He doesn't care much for a picture or book, 

His cattle and hogs keep him busy, you know; 
He rides into town with a satisfied look, 
The man with the hoe. 

His word at the bank is as good as his note, 
Backed up by a couple of eighties or so; 
He won't judge a friend by the cut of his coat, 
The man with the hoe. 

I dine d la carte at a caterer's stand, 

Where waiters are saucy and prices are low; 
He lives at the farm on the fat of the land, 
The man with the hoe. 

He follows the quail as he whistles afield, 

(A gun and a dog are his cronies, I trow) ; 
His orchards the fruit of Hesperides yield, 
The man with the hoe. 

On Sunday at church, with his folks by his side, 

He joins in the singing sonorous and slow; 
God prosper the man — he's America's pride, 
The man with the hoe. 



Drifti 



mi 



fairest maid of rarest days, 
Pomona's child with golden tresses, 

1 loiter in thy sylvan ways, 

My heart is warm with thy caresses. 
And o'er again, as in a dream, 

I voice the words the spell is wreathing, 
As in the reeds beside the stream 

Pandean pipes are lowly breathing. 

I think of one whose starry eyes, 

And laughter through the woodland ringing, 
And shy caress and tender sighs, 

Attuned the poet's heart to singing. 
And like Ausonian king of old, 

I listen to the wood-nymph's pleading, 
While this poor form of human mold 

Plods sadly after Fancy's leading. 

O river rippling to the sea, 

Thy silver waters softly stealing, 
In shadowed beauty o'er the lea, 

Awake the slumbrous chords of feeling. 
And on thy waves of rosy light, 

Seen in my boyhood's happy vision, 
I'm drifting from the shores of night, 

To isles of rest in realms Elysian. 



At Low Twelve 



The kings have crumbled into dust, 

The scepter and the sword, 

Since e'er the master builder stood 

Beside the trestle-board; 

Yet never strikes the solemn hour, 

I care not where or when, 

But that his name is whispered low 

Upon the lips of men! 

I conjure with its magic spell, 
In strange, barbaric lands, 
And lo! the temple's beauties rise 
From out the desert sands; 
And in the Arab's guarded tent, 
Refreshed from travel's toil, 
I'm welcome to his little store 
Of corn and wine and oil! 

The mighty ones of all the earth, 

The rustic at the plow, 

Have gone with me along the road 

To Mount Moriah's brow; 

No charm of creed, no power of birth, 

Nor pride in battles won, 

Shall blight the green acacia bloom 

Where sleeps the widow's son! 

In humble guise, with contrite heart, 
I walk the lonely way, — 
And sore beset where dangers lurk, 
I kneel me down to pray; 



At Low Twelve 



What though the road is dark and rough, 
Or angry threats be heard? 
I journey onward to the light 
And seek the master's word! 

Low twelve or high, it matters not, 

So that he calls to me, — 

I fare me on from Lebanon 

To Joppa by the sea; 

For never night goes round the world, 

I care not where or when, 

But that his gentle spirit speaks 

Unto the hearts of men! 



To One Who Is Blind 



Breathe low upon thy flute to-day, 
The blind man's merry roundelay, 

The rhythmic streams will softly flow 
Where lift the isles of long ago. 

O, haply there thy feet may stray 
Along the old, idyllic way, 

When Life and Love and Hope were young, 
And each its halo o'er thee flung. 



The Stranger at the Gate 



As the twilight shades were falling o'er a chapel old and dim, 
And the sweet-voiced choir were singing soft and low the ves- 
per hymn, 
Stood a stranger cold and hungry, knocking at a rich man's 

door, 
And he heard the surly answer, "We have nothing for the 

poor!" 
But a little heart was quickened and a child voice cried in glee, 
"Take these pennies I was saving for the heathen o'er the 



Though a trifle that she gave him, yet it saved a man from sin, 
And the organ's rolling anthem sank to depths his soul within; 
And he saw as in a vision glimpses of his boyhood home, 
Ere a beggar and an outcast through the streets he had to 

roam, — 
Saw again the water rushing through the wheel that turned the 

mill, 
And the morning-glories climbing round a cottage on the hill. 

Time sped on, the skies grew brighter, and unto the maiden 

fair, 
Came one day a priestly stranger proud of mien, with silvered 

hair. 
'' Daughter, be thou my confessor, — I am he, your beggar 

knave!" 
And he kissed the hand that saved him from a heathen's 

lowly grave. 
" By the garb that now enfolds me, swear I with uplifted eyes, 
To befriend the poor and lonely till this heart in nature dies. " 



Before the Rooster Crows 



(Apologies to Omar Kayyam) 

Fill up the spaces of the night with jest, 

Here where the vintage of good cheer is pressed; 

Life's but a tavern where we rest a while, 
And each in turn must entertain the guest. 

The road is long that leads from yesterday, 
And few the joys that linger by the way; 

So, while the tongue may still articulate, 
Let's toast a friend and moisten up our clay! 

To you, and all good fellows of the quill, 
Belongs the homage of the wine I spill; 

Here's looking at you from the rosy side, 
And may you never lack a dollar bill. 

To-morrow, in the paths we long have trod, 
We plan, perhaps, to make our little wad; 

But ah! to-morrow you and I may be, 
Old Omar sings, deep down beneath the sod! 

And so to-night, before the rooster crows, 
I hail you all good fellows to your nose; 

And better this than buying flowers to lay 
Upon your bier when you turn up your toes. 

So fill again and call the waiter back, 

Ere Phoebus urge his steeds around the track; 

May fortune smile upon you hour by hour, 
And deal you all the face cards in the pack! 



The Man Who Mines the 
Coal 



Deep down within the cavern depths, 

Where never shines the sun, 
He toils for me — the man I sing, 

And toils for everyone; 
The whirring wheels of industry, 

Like giants gaunt and grim, 
The mighty ships that plow the seas, 

Owe each their strength to him; 
But all unknown to wealth or fame, 

He burrows like a mole, 
And little dreams the part he plays, 

The man who mines the coal! 

I see him pass at early morn, 

Beside the mountain brook 
That rushes by his cabin door, 

And seeks the meadow nook; 
I watch him go with steady step 

Along the toiler's way, 
On to the pit's black, yawning mouth, 

That hides him from the day; 
I hear the dull, recurring shocks, 

Far off within the goal, 
And honor him — the man I sing, 

The man who mines the coal! 

In pensive mood I linger here, 
When autumn's sunset fires 

Light up the everlasting hills, 
And tip the distant spires; 



The Man Who Mines the Coal 



I see him climb the path again, 

And cross the torrent's foam, 
And envy him — the man I sing, 

The noisy welcome home; 
I hear the prattle of his babes, 

Sweet music to the soul, 
And feel the debt I owe to him, 

The man who mines the coal! 

What though his face be strange to me, 

Of alien speech his tongue, 
We're brothers underneath the skin, 

Since this old world was young; 
He to his ways and I to mine, 

And God above us all, 
I judge him not — the man I sing, 

Lest I by judging fall; 
Be to our faults a little kind, 

I write upon the scroll, 
For he, like me, hath need of grace, 
The man who mines the coal! 



Thoughts at Sea 

O Thou who doth for the sparrow care, 

Who ruleth the stormy sea! 
Not wealth or fame is the wanderer's prayer 
As seas uplift in the lightning's glare,— 
But favoring winds to my darlings fair, 

And an anchorage, Lord, with Thee. 



AS THE SHIPS SAIL OVER THE 
HARBOR-BAR 





Just over the brow of the seaward bill, 
There lieth a city all white and still; 

And the air is sweet with a faint perfume, 
As the wind steals over the orchard bloom. 

The sailors of many a craft are there, 
And a mother mourneth her girlie fair; 

But they start no more at the bugle call, 
Nor the sunrise gun on the fort's grim wall. 

O the tides may come and the tides may go, 
And the children play in the cove below, — 

Yet never the sound of the breaking swell, 
Nor the warning voice of the buoy bell, 

Shall waken the sleepers upon the hill, 
Where lieth the city all white and still. 

But the mother watches a twinkling star, 
As the ships sail over the harbor-bar, 

And she dreams, dear heart, that her darling's 

eyes 
Are the stars that brighten the evening 



-yS, 



ilfiifttfsifc 




Dreamin 



g 



Maiden of the dark blue eye, 

In whose trustful depths are dwelling 
Golden dreams of by-and-by, 

Blissful years to thee foretelling,— 
Oft the minstrel's lute would wake 

Strains that lure to realms of gladness, 
Did not pensive thought partake 

Of the twilight gloom of sadness. 

Though the skies are bright today, 

Canst thou tell me of the morrow; 
If the heart will still be gay, 

Or shall weep alone in sorrow ? 
All in vain we strive to know 

Where these hopes of ours are tending, 
Ere the sunset colors glow, 

In the blue above us bending. 

So I cannot help but dream, 

In this sweet September weather, 
As beside the sunlit stream 

We are loitering together, 
Of the silent years to be, 

Where the sluggish waves are flowing, 
And I cry, " O Time! for me 

All too swift thy sands are going. " 



Old Jonah an' the Whale 



I reckon how a word or two won't do you any harm, 
Now you are leavin' ma an' me out here upon the farm; 
An' though I'm not a findin' fault because you want to go, 
I have a little maxim that will do you good, I know; 
It aint no fancy sayin' an' it aint no poet's dream, — 
Don't never swap your hosses when you're crossin' of the 
stream! 



By that I mean don't lose your holt on things you know is 

right, 
But plow your furrow straight ahead an' keep the mark in 

sight; 
Them folks off in the city there is only common folks, 
An' what they say about our ways is mostly funny jokes; 
Just be a man among 'em all an' hold your head up high, 
An' never feel ashamed to say your Christian name is Si. 

I've read the Bible, off an' on, for over forty years, 
An' seen it cheer the sinner's heart an' dry the widder's tears, 
But dogged if I can figger out where anything is wrong, 
From Genesis to Solomon an' all the way along; 
An' here I want to make remark about religion's theme, — 
Don't never swap your hosses when you're crossin' of the 
stream! 

Your ma's a little worried, Si, because you're leavin' home, 
An' speaks about temptations when a boy begins to roam; 
She heard a high-brow preacher once who talked about the 

whale, 
An' said old Jonah an' the fish was just a fairy tale; 
An' she's afraid, I reckon, that your faith may find a change, 
In them big city churches where the faces all is strange. 

It takes a lot of preachin' in a world as bad as ours, 

To tell which is the thistles an' to tell which is the flowers: 



Old Jonah an' the Whale 



But I'm honest when I say it an' I never seen it fail, 
The first to rouse the critics is old Jonah an' the whale! 
An' that's the how an' why of what I'm sayin' now to you 
About the stream of human life your feet is passin' through. 

Them city politicians have a way, as you will note, 
Of workin' on our feelin's just to get the farmer vote; 
They call us this an' call us that an' shake us by the hand 
An talk about the tariff an' the trusts that rule the land- ' 
But gettm' down to politics an' things that tip the beam — 
Don t never swap your hosses when you're crossin' of the 
stream! 

I've read the papers up an' down an' read 'em inside out 
An seen the posters on the wall an' heard the speakers shout • 
But dogged if I can figger out where things is goin' wrong, ' 
When crops is fair to middlin' an' the price of hogs is strong- 
The mines is all a-workin' an' the mills is runnin' too, 
An what they get on pay-day means a heap to me an' you. 

It takes a lot of plannin' in a country big as ours, 
To even up the tariff an' to fix the money powers; 
But I'm honest when I say it an' I never seen it fail 
The tariff sounds as fishy as old Jonah an' the whale; 
An' that's the how an' why of what I said a while ago 
About the stream an' hosses an' about you goin' slow. ' 

Abe Lincoln used to say it, an' he meant it too, by gum 
When Blue an' Gray was keepin' step behind the fife an' drum- 
It s homely talk an' maybe it is older than the hills, 
But I don't like no language that is loaded down with frills- 
An so I stick to them remarks, old-fashioned as they seem — 
Don t never swap your hosses when you're crossin' of the 
stream! 



Yankee Guns at Manila 



O hark to the roar of the echoing guns, 

As the light leaps the sky; 
There's a cry from the deep to Olympia's sons, 

" Ye must conquer or die ! " 
From our brave Dewey's lips 
Speeds the word to the ships, 

And the guns answer " Aye ! " 

The battle is fierce and the billows are red 

With the blood of Castile ! 
Aim away — fire again — and the missile has sped 

To the bulwarks of steel. 
Mark the course of the shell, 
On its errand of hell, 

Where the poor devils reel. 

Our eyes meet the eyes of the fighters of Spain, 

In the glimmering dawn, 
As the guns volley forth, "We remember the Maine, 

And a people forlorn !" 
There is death in the bay 
As they thunder away, 

But a glory is born. 

O true is your aim at the far battle line, 

Where the red current runs, 
Ye men of the prairie and men of the pine, 

Who are earth's valiant ones ! 
And the sailors who died, 
In the surge of the tide, 

Are avenged by your guns. 



Star-Gazing 



Do you remember that sweet night, 
(I quite forget the year), 

We traced Orion's starry flight — 
Just you and I, my dear ? 

The story of the Pleiades, 
Who shun the giant's gaze, 

Came to us over twilight seas, 
Through Love's romantic haze. 

Do you remember how you turned 

To view the storied sky, 
While all the lamps of Evening burned 

And only you and I ? 

O, gaily rang the hunter's horn, 

Across the Phrygian plain, 
As bravely to the gates of dawn 

He led the shining train. 

Do you remember what I said, 

Or why you trembled so, 
Or where you laid your golden head — 

One summer long ago ? 

Dear girl, I don't recall your name, 
(Though you were young and fair), 

And so unto the driftwood flame 
I give this lock of hair. 



Howdy, Pap? 



Howdy, Pap? 

Who are we? 
We are the M-double O-S-E. 

Are we right? 

Sure we are! 
Moose are known from near and far. 

Get the pass-word, 

Get the rap ! 
Howdy? Howdy? Howdy, Pap? 



The Poet's Soul 



The poet's soul, created to be free, 

Scorns e'en the touch of Avarice and Pride: 

'Tis like an eagle by the lonely sea, 

In grandeur poised above the shafts of harm, 

Nor made inert by Beauty's subtle charm! 

Or seems it some Kedalion to guide 

The blind man's way up to the sun-god's side. 

To soar its mission, 

Pierce the unseen skies! 
And on sublimer heights philosophize, 
Till weary eyes shall open on the calm 
Of that fair world where God's pure temples rise. 



At the Cabaret 



(After Thackery) 

Ho! college man with the dimpled chin, 
And hat hung low on a rakish ear, 

On your face is the stage-door grin, 

That is the way the lads begin, — 
Wait till you come to forty year! 

Forty times over let moving day pass, 

(One from the wood, if you please, mynheer), 
Then you'll fathom the chorus lass, 
Then you'll blow the foam from the glass, 
Once you have come to forty year. 

Pledge me around, I bid you declare, 

All good fellows of yesterday, 
Did not the fairest of the fair 
Put you in bad with the mater, ere 

Ever the show had gone away? 

Popping of corks maketh foolish brains, 

(Slip me another soft crab, mynheer), 
The cop is weary of rag-time strains 
Under the cabaret's window-panes, — 
Wait till you come to forty year! 

Kitty's in vaudeville, — bless the dear, 
How I loved her twenty years syne, — 

Trixie is married, but I sit here, 

Fat and happy at forty year, 
Dipping my beak in a foaming stein. 



Ben Ali Khan 



'Twas the hour of rest in Damascus fair, 
As the faithful knelt at the mosque in prayer; 
And the beasts, relieved of their burdens, lay 
In the calm repose of an eastern day. 
From minarets rising to meet the blue, 
The cry of the muezzin sounded true, 
And the Night again to the world did bring, 
The dews of sleep on her downy wing. 

But out on the edge of the desert far, 
His pathway lit by a fadeless star, 
A traveler came with the caravan : 
"Praised be Allah, — Ben Ali Khan!" 
Thus murmured the host of the wayside inn, 
As the breezes blew through his turban thin. 
" He cometh again from the distant vales, 

To gladden the heart with his wondrous tales.' 

Old Hassan then bustled about in glee, 
And from his tavern looked out to see 
Ben Ali, prince of the traveling band, 
With stories so merry at his command; 
And the maid Zulette, who had sought repose, 
At the master's call from her couch arose, 
While over the snow of her bosom fell 
The sheen of a star that had guided well. 

"It is he !" she cried, as her heart beat fast, 
"Who promised to cherish while life should last! 
And true to her sex, she in haste did fly, 
To a glass that hung in her chamber nigh. 



Ben Ali Khan 



Her toilet over, she viewed her charms, 
Then slipped away to Ben Ali's arms. 
Ho ! now for a supper of good renown, 
With a flagon of Rhenish to wash it down. 

The traveler's camels had gone to rest, 
When Hassan returned to his welcome guest, 
Who, waited upon by the fair Zulette, 
Had feasted on dainties before him set. 
Then many a story of quaint design, 
He wove for them in his language fine; 
And he swore by Allah that all were true, 

For the scene of each he had journeyed through. 

He told of kings and their goodly reign, 
Of Arabs he fought on the sandy plain; 
He told of death in the dread simoon, 
And the nautch-girl's dance in the days of June. 
He told them tales of the Zuyder Zee, 
He learned in youth at his mother's knee; 
And slapping old Hassan upon the spine, 
He trolled him a song of the storied Rhine. 

On the morrow Zulette was up betimes, 
And strolled with her lover among the limes, 
And into her listening ears he poured 
The praise of a Syrian girl adored; 
For never a traveler 'neath the sky, 
But loved the glance of a roguish eye; 
Though many a maid hath wept forlorn, 
From Kala-Mazoo to the Golden Horn. 



So all day long, till the first faint star, 
Ben Ali worked in the gay Bazaar; 



Ben AH Khan 



And the gracious lord of the harem came, 
To hail him a fellow of noble fame. 
"Thy manner is charming," the Moslem said, 
As thrice toward Mecca he bowed his head; 
" Come bide with me at the evening hour, 
For the air is sweet in my garden bower. " 

No beauty like hers had Ben Ali dreamed, 
As Lelia's eyes from the lattice beamed; 
And his heart was caught in a silken snare, 
For the rose was red in her raven hair. 
But alack for thee, little maid Zulette, — 
Thy lips are dry and thy lashes wet; 
And while you linger and long and wait, 
The camels are off through the western gate. 

"By the Prophet's beard," old Hassan cried, 
"The flower of the harem will be his bride; 
And whether he lose or whether he win, 
He'll come no more to the wayside inn!" 
And the story runs, with its moral true, 
From Damascus town unto Timbuctoo: 
" Beware the men of the caravan, 

For strong is the tribe of Ben Ali Khan." 



The Comforter 



Old faiths and fears have run the race, 

Along the path of time, 
The sins of years, the meed of tears, 

Are lost in love sublime; 
The dawn hath brought the Comforter 

Unto the lives of men, — 
A sweet surcease, a perfect peace, 

Beyond our human ken. 

What matters if a thousand creeds, 

Each in its little sphere, 
Have ruled the earth since primal birth, 

Through death, or pain, or fear? 
The truest test of happiness, 

In all the years to be, 
Must be the test of what is best, 

The truth that makes us free. 

The world hath need of healing grace, 

To make the spirit clean, — 
The grace that gave itself to save 

The stricken Gadarine; 
A newer light is in the skies, 

To guide the feet that stray, 
And love illumes the lily blooms 

That spring along the way. 



The Song of the Bugle 



Afar from the home-land, O comrades of old, 
You sleep where the daisies your ashes enfold, — 
On fields where you fell in the thick of the fight, 
My soul in its dreaming is tenting to-night, 
But the song of the bugle is kindly and true, 
"Guard ye the graves of the Gray and the Blue!" 

Though strangers you are to the heralds of fame, 
The halo of glory encircles each name, 
E'en princes may envy the bliss of your dream, 
So restful and sweet by the murmuring stream, 
But the song of the bugle, O comrades of mine, 
Is the sigh of the palm and the sob of the pine. 

Away from the conflict, all silent and lone, 

The dead have their dreams of the years that are flown, 

The vows of devotion and clasping of hands, 

Of lips pressed to lips in the far-away lands, 

And the voices of dear ones, so tender and low, 

Are heard in the accents they knew long ago. 

Afar from the home-land, O comrades of yore, 
My soul in its dreaming is marching once more, — 
The spirit is quickened and calls me to die, 
And sleep with the daisies all under the sky, 
But the song of the bugle is kindly and true, 
"Guard ye the graves of the Gray and the Blue!" 



Thee and Thy Lady Fair 



Silver and gold have I none to give, 
Nor pearls from the shining sea, 

But such as I have, as my soul doth live, 
I give unto thine and thee. 

The winds blow fair over wood and wold, 

And rare is the Gascon wine, 
As I hail thee peer of the knights of old 

Who rode in the battle line. 

The guerdon's won and the jousts are o'er, 
And proud is the name you bear; 

I drain a cup to the days of yore, 
To thee and thy lady fair. 

I sing, God wot, as the heart doth feel, 

A song of the knightly days, 
The beauseant and the flashing steel, 

And the charm of the courtly ways, 

And by my troth as a wandering bard, 

Who loveth the ways of men, 
I'd ride me long and I'd ride me hard 

To pledge with thy sire again. 



The Fighters of Yesterday 



Down the long, dim valleys that stretch away, 
I dream of the fighters of yesterday, 

And I see the light of the watch-fire's glow, 
Where the rivers meet in their onward flow! 



I hear the wolf on the lonely hill, 

And the low, sweet song of the whip-poo '-will, 

And out of the dark where the wigwams lie, 
An arrow is flaming across the sky! 

The gray owl calls with a loud tu-whoo, 
From the battered prow of a war canoe, 

I see the gleam at the water's brink, 

Where the game came down in the night to drink; 

And far along by the wooded shore, 

I watch for the foe where he lurked of yore, 

As the stars fade heavenward one by one, 
And the hills uplift to the rising sun! 

Down the long, dim valleys that once were mine, 
The paleface kneels at his altar shrine. 

I see the path that his skill has blazed, 

And the works the might of his arm has raised; 

His children rule where my people trod, 

And their harvests spring from the blood-stained sod, 



The Fighters of Yesterday 



As the trail winds on over plain and steep, 

Through the hallowed ground where the fighters sleep. 

What matters it now where their bones may rest, — 
It was knife to knife, it was breast to breast! 

I hear the twang of the bended bow, 
And the muffled shot in the rocks below; 

Though the scalp-lock falls from the chieftain's hand. 
He died for his squaw and his native land, 

For men were the hunters and men the prey, 
And brave were the fighters of yesterday! 



The Joy Riders 

Over the hills and far away, 
Love rode with Life one summer day. 
They heard, afar from haunts of man, 
The music of the goat-foot Pan, 
The jocund winds at early morn 
Piped gaily from the waving corn! 
For them the song of bird and bee, 
The mystic calling of the sea, 
And then beneath the starlight glow, 
The old, old story lovers know! 
O Time! you thief, forbear to steal 
The joy of Love and Life awheel. 



The Girl in the Red Pinafore 



When you were a girl, just a dear little girl, 

And lisped as you whispered my name, 
Together we strayed in the wood's spreading shade, 

And shared in each frolic and game! 
The soft pussy-willows I gathered for you, 
And the early primroses fresh kissed by the dew. 
As we roamed in the fields where the buttercups grew, 
And the meadow lark sang to the clouds drifting by! 
I dream of the valleys and hills far away, 

The years that were full of youth's rapturous joy, 
When you were the girl in the red pinafore, 

And I was a freckled face boy. 

When you were a girl, just a dear little girl, 

With eyes like the violet's blue, 
I thought you the queen of the old village green, 

And I loved only you, only you! 
I remember the stream where we fished with a pin, 
And the spot teacher's pet from the bank tumbled in, 
He swallowed his gum and got wet to the skin, 
But we laughed at the poor little chap, you and I! 
Then home in the dusk with our fish on a string, 

A song in the heart and the stars in the sky, 
When you were the girl in the red pinafore, 

And I was a freckled-face boy. 

When you were a girl, just a dear little girl, 

And I was your own roguish mate, 
If I whistled a tune you would come to me soon, 

And swing on the old garden gate! 



The Girl in the Red Pinafore 



You were always my pal in the long summer days, 
I was close by your side in the rambles and plays, 
Ere the fates led our feet into separate ways, 
And we knew aught of pain that would come by-and-by! 
But I dream of it all in the twilight again, — 

Of years that were golden without their alloy, 
When you were the girl in the red pinafore, 

And I was a freckled-face boy. 



Toilers of the Night 

Toilers of the night, who look with tired eyes 
Far out beyond the dim, white hours! Ye keep 
The sentry-watch o'er Death's twin spirit, Sleep, 

That on the morrow men may leisure-wise 

Read all that's writ ! With patient skill ye form 
The world's events in phalanx grand to see, 

Lending to War the terrors of the storm, 
Giving to Peace the song of bird and bee. 
Toilers of the night, my heart is one with thee, 

Under the dome-like splendor of the stars! 

The dawn is beating at my window bars, 
A new day breaks across the rosy sea; 

And once again the old dreams come and go, 

Ghosts of the dear, dead days of Long Ago. 



No More the Bugle Calls to 
Arms 



Beside the martyr's storied tomb, 

I dream of battles won; 
The armies pass in dim review, 
Beyond the setting sun, 
And Glory guards the nation's dead, 

Where flows the Sangamon. 

Far down the vista of the past, 

I see the senate grave — 
I hear the clash of fierce debate 
Around the shackled slave ! 
Again I see the fighting hosts, 

The fleets upon the wave. 

But Lincoln's voice at Gettysburg, 
Clear ringing through the years, 

Hath naught of anger for the foe, 

No note of servile fears; 

I feel the pathos of his words, 
The tribute of his tears. 

' ' Fourscore and seven years ago, 

Our fathers gave to thee 
This country of the starry flag, 
Conceived in liberty — 
And dedicated to the thought 

That all men should be free. 



No More the Bugle Calls to Arms 



' ' Now we engage in civil war, 

To test by death and pain, 
If such a nation, so conceived, 
Is destined to remain; 
To prove that these, our honored dead, 

Shall not have died in vain. 

' ' And we have come to dedicate 

A portion of this field, 
To be a final resting-place 
For him who would not yield — 
But dying as the Spartan died, 

Came home upon his shield! " 

The tide of battle surges on, 

Death rides amid the fray; 
A million hearths are desolate, 
Their idols torn away; 
The mother mourneth for her sons, 

Among the Blue and Gray. 

Thus do I dream, O Sangamon, 
Beneath thy wooded shade, 

The story of the sacrifice 

On War's red altar laid — 

And thus I sing the martyr's name, 
Whose glory shall not fade. 

Unto this hallowed sepulchre, 
The first spring blossom comes; 

No more the bugle calls to arms, 

Nor sound of throbbing drums; 

But safe within the cannon's mouth, 
The drowsy beetle hums. 



Jim 



(Acknowledged to James Whitcomb Riley) 



Doctors never had much to say, 
Speakin' of Jim, 

'Cept he was gittin' along right smart, 
An' the folks all jes' wrapped up in him! 
Dogged, but I'd like to see him now, 
For we all knew Jim, an' we sure felt sad 
When the word got out 'at he was took 
Right bad sick in his fambily. 
But we jes' backed him for to win, 
An' when the good news come our way, 
Why, we jes' natcherly said, "Hooray, 

Good-bye, Jim, 

Take keer of yourse'f." 

'Peared like we was more satisfied, 

Jes' hearin' from Jim, 
An' we allowed he was doin' fine, 

'Cause we was jes' wrapped up in him! 
An' down at the tavern we heard Ben say 
'At he'd drop in on his hom'ard way, 
Seein' how things was a-goin' with Jim. 
'Nen somebody buyed, an' we said, "Hooray, 
Good-bye, Jim, 
Take keer of yourse'f." 

Never was nothin' about the town 

Outdistanced Jim, 
An' neighbors all used to wonder if 

Congress wasn't the job for him! 



Jim 



And when Cap Rosenfield writ back 
'At Jim was one of the best we had, 
If this was a dimocratic year, 
It made the fellers feel mighty glad ! 
But there he was, down sick at home, 
An' we dassent yip or do a thing; 
The letter was writ way off in Rome, 
An' Cap wound up the message to him, 
'At Bert read to us, 'at said, "Tell Jim, 

Hooray, 

An' take keer of hisse'f." 

Temper'ture's better, doctors said, 

Speakin' of Jim: — 
Think of a feller, now, by gum, 

We'll say like Jim, 
'At's gittin' well an' will make things hum, 

An' the folks all jes' wrapped up in him! 
Think of him when the spring breaks through, 
An' the trees is green up in old Long View, 
Tth the big sun shinin' down on him, 
An' the bluejays hollerin' — "Oh, you Jim!" 
An' him a sittin' plum out of doors, 
Watchin' the rector doin' chores, 
Tth the children playin' across the way, 
An' the river singin' for him, "Hooray, 
Good-bye, Jim, 
Take keer of yourse'f." 



Motherland 



Tonight across my senses steals 

The perfume of the pine, 

O sweeter far, to homesick hearts, 

Than draughts of fragrant wine; 

Again uplift the sea-girt isles, 

Where sylvan beauties reign, 

And dreams of thee come back to me, 

motherland of Maine. 

Thy glories gleam before my eyes, 
As in the olden days, 

1 see again the labyrinths 
Of Casco's lovely bays; 

The sea-gull's cry rings in my ears, 
As o'er the foam he flies, 
And Memory sets her signal lights 
Along the darkened skies. 

There's laughter in the swaying pines, 

There's music in the gale, 

Each ship upon the sea tonight 

Is some remembered sail; 

And peering through the flying mist, 

That folds me in its spell, 

I cry, "What ho! — O mariners!" 

The answer is, "Farewell!" 

Like phantom ships before the wind, 
They to their havens flee, 
While I a wanderer must drift, 
Upon a shoreless sea; 



Motherland 



But while the lights of being burn, 
Within the conscious brain, 
My eyes will seek thy far-off coast, 
O motherland of Maine. 



Unattained 



That day of days, long, long ago, 

Its memory gilds the years, 
When o'er two lives a golden light 

Shone through the mist of tears. 
The minstrel sang, "Fame's gift is mine, 

Forever and for aye!" 
Youth's blissful dream o'erbrimmed the heart, 
And bade its wild unrest depart; 

That far-off summer day, 

Ere life was old and gray. 

That day of days, long, long ago, 

How bright its glories gleam, 
Though heart hath drifted far from heart, 

Like leaves upon the stream. 
The heather blooms as gay again, 

The lark sings just as clear ! 
But ah! the dream of youth is flown, 
The minstrel sleeps unloved, unknown; 

No homage greets his ear, 

No garlands deck his bier. 



The Homage of the Drum 



Men of the nation, sires and sons. 

Heirs of a grandeur still to be, 
I sing of deeds whose valor won 

The glory of Thermopylae; 
I sing the praise of gallant bands 

Who held the pass against the foe — 
The hosts who stood with Washington, 

And gave the Lion blow for blow. 

The warning drum-beat wakes the past, 

In busy mart and mountain glen; 
All armed to strike for liberty, 

Spring up the Yankee minute-men! 
Again the belfry lantern gleams, 

To signal that the foe is near, 
And through the night and far away, 

Speeds on the steed of Paul Revere. 

I see the fathers, roused for war, 

Rush on to die with faith sublime, 
The offspring of a fighting race, 

That humbled kings in Cromwell's time; 
I hear the tramp of marching feet, 

The air is filled with wild alarms, 
And from the darkness rings a cry, 

"My countrymen, to arms — to arms!' 

Our heroes sleep where cities rise, 
To greet the light of Freedom's morn, 

Their graves a priceless heritage 
For generations yet unborn; 



The Homage of the Drum 



Nor time, nor tide, nor stress of war, 
Shall dim the lustre of their name ■ 

It needs no splendid Parthenon 
To make secure the nation's fame. 

The guns of mighty battleships, 

The rolling drum, the bugle shrill, 
Pay homage to the stars and stripes, 

The symbol of a people's will; 
Still as of old the signal runs, 

"One if by land — two if by sea," 
And tyrants dare assail no more 

The flag the fathers died to free! 



Together 



Though we mingle no more 

On that magical shore, 
Where brightly the sunlight is shining, 

There are glories that blend 

When the shadows descend, 
And life to its close is declining! 

For the stars will arise 

In our evening skies, 
The blossoms will bloom in the heather, 

And it's me and it's you 

Who will look to the blue, 
And wait in the gloaming together! 




OVER THE WALNUTS AND THE 
WINE 

If any little gift of song be mine, 

To crown the glory of this festal day, 

friend whose heart was generous alway, 

1 give it, — 
Over the walnuts and the wine! 

The voice of Memory sings upon the hills, 
To wake the music of a far-off time, 
And runs the river with its ceaseless rhyme, 
Through meadows fragrant with the daffodils 

How fair the vista of the vanished years, 
With all the joys and sorrows we have known! 
Love b.th its laughter and it hath its tears, 
But treads the wine-press of its grief alone. 

I whisper now, with hand warm-clasped in 

thine, 
God bless you, — 
Over the walnuts and the wine! 



*1m 



Abou Ben Adams 



Abou Ben Adams (may he save his pay), 

Was pulling freight along the Santa F6, 

And saw, within the dimly-lit retreat, 

A sight that fairly raised him off his seat, — 

An Angel writing in a great big book! 

Fear seized upon him and Ben Adams shook, 

But to the presence in the cab he said, 

"What writest thou!" The Vision raised its head, 

And, with a look that thrilled him to the spine, 

Answered, "Names of those who love the way divine!' 

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not there," 

Replied the Angel. Abou jerked the air, 

And took a chew, and said, — "Just write me, then, 

As one who loves all railroad men!" 

The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night 

It came again, with the old town just in sight, 

To show the names on which he'd had a hunch, 

And lo! Ben Adams' name led all the bunch! 



Temperance — Fortitude 



Let Temperance rule in all thy earthly ways, 
And on thy brow shall rest the victor's bays. 

No braver deed can Fortitude proclaim, 

Than praise for him who guards a woman's name. 



The Old Man Writes to Bill 



I've been writin' of a letter 

To my boy at Callyo, 
A sort of half-way station 

On the road to old Japan, 
For Bill has j'ined the navy, 

An' he's gone to sea, you know, 
To learn to box the compass 

An' to be a fightin' man. 

For glory of the piney hills 

An' prairies far away, 
He'll never shrink from danger 

Where the line of duty runs, 
But I spoke of Abra'm Lincoln, 

An' the things he used to say, 
To make him strong an' steady 

When he's shootin' off the guns! 

I believe in all the nations 

Shakin' hands across the sea, 
But likewise that a fraidy-cat 

Don't win no lastin' joy, — 
An' I reckon I seen service 

In the days of sixty-three, 
A-luggin' of a musket 

With the troops from Illinoy. 

Well, dog my cats! it sets the blood 

A-tingle in the veins, 
To dream about the bugles 

An' the rattle of the drums, 



The Old Man Writes to Bill 



The sailors on the ocean, 
An' the soldiers on the plains, 

All watchin' out for trouble 
If a rumpus ever conies! 

They're talkin' up in Washin'ton 

About the Panama, 
The Philippines, an' Cuby's isle, 

An' fights in Mexico, — 
I writ to Bill an' told him 

What my sentimentals are, 
So's he can find the message 

When he gits to Callyo. 

An' the people off in Europe 

Wonders what we mean to do, 
I read it in the foreign news 

That come the other day, 
But this aint any secret, 

An' I'll tell it now to you, 
We're goin' to keep a finger 

On the trigger all the way! 

The grandest sight I ever seen 

Was down to Hampton Roads, 
If I should live as many years 

As old Methusalum, 
When Fightin' Bob put out to sea, 

An' showed his signal codes, 
An' off to South Ameriky 

As brave as kingdom come. 



The Old Man Writes to Bill 



I reckon lots of folks like me 

Felt mighty proud that day, 
To see the ships a-hikin' off 

Into a distant clime, 
The sailors cheerin' ev'rywhere, 

All up an' down the bay, 
An' all the bands a-playin' 

An' the guns a-keepin' time! 

Some said it was a frolic trip, 

Some thought they meant to fight, 
An' others said the navy men 

Was showin' off their skill, — 
Well, I'm for gittin' ready, 

An' a-sittin' hard an' tight, 
An' them's my honest feelin's, 

As I've just remarked to Bill. 

No, we're not huntin' trouble 

With the nations anywhere, 
We're friendly like an' pleasant 

With the emperors an' kings, 
But lordy! how them wireless things 

Will whistle through the air, 
If the eagle starts a-screamin' 

An' a-flappin' of his wings! 



A Brother of the Broader Tie 



The drummer, bless his jolly face, 

Hath goodly right to fame; 
No matter what his creed or race, 

He glories in the name. 

He's open-hearted, brave and kind, 

And loves a noble deed; 
In him ill-luck will always find, 

A friend in time of need. 

In every land beneath the sky, 

He marches in the van; 
A brother of the broader tie, 

That binds us man to man. 

He'll smoke with you and joke with you, 

And fight if need there be; 
To home and friends and country true, 

A generous soul is he. 

He works alike in sun and rain, 
And taketh blame or praise; 

You meet him on the morning train, 
In trade's o'ercrowded ways. 

His standard to the breeze unfurled, 

Floats o'er the distant isles; 
He moves the commerce of the world, 

And basks in beauty's smiles. 

And he is versed in all the tricks, 

That travel on the road; 
For both in love and politics, 

The drummer knows the code. 



"John Collins" 



John Collins, O my Jo John, 

Whate'er my lot may be, 
I still would have thee know, John, 

I fondly dream of thee! 
Thy bonnie smile, so kindly, 

Lurks at the foaming brim, 
And he who loves so blindly 

No faults of thine may limn; 
And when the spell comes o'er me, 

The warm blood swifter flows, — 
Thy seal upon my lips, John, 

Is sweeter than the rose. 

John Collins, O my Jo John, 

Tis long since first we met; 
Thy poll is white as snow, John, 

But time brings no regret! 
I still would trudge beside thee, 

Though wrinkled, old and gray, 
Nor wish the boon denied me 

In life's receding day. 
The draught in which I pledge thee 

Is cooling as the rills, 
And memory of the past, John, 

The heart with longing fills. 

John Collins, O my Jo John, 
Life's been a weary load, 

Since I with thee did go, John, 
Along youth's sunlit road, — ■ 



"John Collins" 



The clouds have lowered above me, 

And silvered is my hair, 
And few are left to love me, 

And few are left to care I 
But think me not unmindful 

Of friendship rare as thine, — 
I drain a toast to thee, John, 

And days of auld Iang syne. 



Young at Sixty-Seven 



Somewhere in the past I have read of a mortal, 

Methinks 'twas Tithonus of old, 
Who prayed he might live on the green earth forever, 

And honor the Age of the Gold! 
He wandered at will in the valleys Elysian, 

Beloved by Aurora the fair, — 
Till she, fickle jade, raised a row on Olympus, 

Because he had frost in his hair. 

Then life for Tithonus was shorn of its beauty, 

He longed with the dead to be urned, 
And when the bright goddess gave heed to his pleading, 

He into a grasshopper turned! 
But you, worthy friend, although three score and seven, 

Have youth that's refreshingly gay, — 
Your laugh has the ring of a jolly good fellow, 

With never a hint of decay. 



The Finished Temple 



"Wisdom hath builded her house: 
she hath hewn out her seven 
pillars' '. — Proverbs. 



In templed halls where Wisdom sits, 
A gracious queen upon her throne, 
Men dedicate to life's ideals 

A something more than sculptured stone! 
Not regnant there is wealth or birth, 
Nor pride in wordly conquests won, 
But love of all the mind achieves 
And joy in duties well begun; 
And there, as low the censer swings, 
The timid feet may safely stray, 
And heart will answer unto heart 
The far-off call of yesterday! 

As one who lingers at the gates, 

A stranger in a stranger's land, 
I sing a little song of praise, 

To pillars hewn by craftsmen's hand! 
The faith of all the years abides, 
More precious than the richest mine, — 
The faith that sees in common things 
Relation to the things divine; 
'Tis this that consecrates the hour, 
And every sense of being thrills, 
As now the finished temple stands 
Among the everlasting hills! 

How meaningless were stately piles, 
If raised to glorify desire, 



The Finished Temple 



For gone are all our yesterdays 

As gone are Nineveh and Tyre! 
But those who build the altar-shrines, 
And those who toil, and plow, and sow, 
That light may come from out the dark, 
Have builded better than they know; 
For stones may crumble into dust, 
And turn to primal earth again, 
But Wisdom mounts on angel wings 
And sings unto the souls of men! 



Creeds 



How barren seem our human creeds, 
When Life's resistless tide recedes 

Out to a shoreless sea; 
The voyage with the boatman pale, 
That mystic walk within the vale, 

Without their light must be. 

The worm that crawleth at our feet, 
Is part of Nature's plan complete, 
And lives by love divine; 
And man, poor worm of larger mold. 
Shall not his clearer sight behold 
The Father's great design? 



Lights of the Sand-Man's Town 



Sweet bud from gardens of babyland, 

O girlie with eyes so blue, 
Our slumber boat, by the fairies manned, 

Steals off to the isle of Boo ! 
The cricket is singing his bed-time song, 

As stars of the night look down, 
And we shall see, ere the way be long, 

The lights of the sand-man's town. 

The brownie folk have a kiss, I ween, 

For each little shining tear; 
They dance till morning upon the green, 

And all for my girlie dear. 
The sound of their fiddles comes on the air, 

O'er waters so dark and deep, 
And tiniest ships from everywhere 

Drop down the river of sleep. 

The lady moon peeps out of the sky, 

As gently the eyelids fall; 
The owlets seek, with a startled cry, 

Their home near the ivied wall ! 
The lights of Boo give a welcome sweet, 

As the south wind stirs the palms, 
And girlie dreams where the rivers meet, 

At rest in the sand-man's arms. 



When Eva Tanguay Played 



A minstrel man, with wheezy pipes, 

Lay sick at Kankakee, 
No kith or kin of his was nigh, 

He'd not a sou-markee! 

The time had come for him to go, 

Up to the promised land, — 
The bell-hop stood with tearful gaze, 

The waitress held his hand. 

"Is there not some sweet, tender thought, 
That you may call your own," 

They said to him; "Ere you must join 
The choir around the throne?" 

A flush of pride o'erspread his cheek, 
And faith looked from his eyes, 

For he could read his title clear 
To mansions in the skies! 

And eke his pipes grew strong again, 

And, strangely sweet to see, 
He spake the words they graved upon 

His tomb at Kankakee: 

"God wot!" he cried, "I know of one, 

And I am not afraid, — 
/ worked in black face on the bill 

When Eva Tanguay playedl" 



Back in the Good Old Town 
Again 



I'm thinking of you to-night, old pal, 

With a look that is far away, 
For the show is broke, and my ring's in soak, 

And the skies are cold and gray! 
But back in the good old town again, 

In the glare of the spotlight's sun, 
In the land, you know, where good fellows grow, 

I'm working alone in "One." 

The jumps are long and the road is hard, 

When you're out with a one-night stand, 
And the tanks won't fall for the price at all, 

Without a parade and band; 
The piece was fine and the cast was great, 

From the lead to the little maid, 
But the box receipts would not buy the eats 

In some of the towns we played! 

We gave them art with a great big A, 

And the settings were gold and blue, 
But the small-time folks wanted minstrel jokes, 

And songs from the burle-que! 
But I don't care for the wanderlust, 

Or the tangles the fates have spun, 
For sans crowns and wreaths, on the bill at Keith's, 

I'm working alone in "One." 

I'm wondering where you are, old pal, 
As the cuckoo upon the wall 



Back in the Good Old Town Again 



Breaks in with the chimes for eleven times, 

"To our absent brothers all." 
But wherever you are on land or sea, 

I am drinking a toast that's true, 
And it's not so far but a twinkling star 

Will shine through the dark to you! 

I saw a face in the crowd to-night, 

As I dreamed of the long ago, 
And it held me fast in the buried past, — 

A girl that I used to know! 
I saw the love in her shining eyes, 

As she smiled on her little son, — 
She's a famous star where the white lights are, 

But I am the act in "One." 

It's not the same as the real legit, 

When you're doing your two a day, 
But you get the hands if the story lands, 

And then is the time to say, — 
"And now, good friends, for your kind applause, 

I'll endeavor to," — What's the odds? 
For you go down front with your one best stunt 

And play to the gallery gods! 

I'm wishing for better days, old pal, 

For a part in a big-time show, 
Where the action calls as the curtain falls, 

And the drums are throbbing low! 
But back in the good old town again, 

In the glare of the spotlight's sun, 
In the land, you know, where good fellows grow, 

I'm working alone in "One." 



JUL 28 .1913 



